“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.
“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”
“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”
“The one and only,” Braggs said.
The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.
“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”
She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.
“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on.” The woman glanced at her phone then continued. “So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”
Braggs walked over and picked up the box.
Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”
“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.
“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.
Thirty-Five
Mary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.
“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.
“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.
“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”
“Before I go,” he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent’s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”
“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”
“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.
“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They're actually a fun bunch.”
“Laugh a minute, I'm sure, Whitney.”
Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”
“That would presuppose I have a style, Braggs.”
“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? No.”
“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”
“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your–”
“I am armed, Braggs.”
Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.
Thirty-Six
Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians, and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.
Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.
She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.
Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.
With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.
The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews, clubs and movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.
The first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.
She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.
The twenty-six living would be relatively simple. She would have to track them down, interview them if possible, and cross them off the list until theoretically, she got the pool down to a chosen few and then she would have to take it from there.
It was the five unaccounted for that would be the bigger challenge. They had completely fallen off the grid, as the law enforcement community liked to call it. Or, just as likely, had taken themselves off the grid. Running from the law. Running from loan sharks. Hiding from ex-wives and alimony payments. She already pictured a couple of the guys bagging groceries in Florida under assumed names.
More people abandoned their identities than most realized. The process really wasn’t that difficult. The fact that most people thought it was difficult was why more didn’t do it.
There was a definite appeal to tossing out your current station in life, and starting an entirely new one.
She couldn’t blame them if that’s what they’d done.
At some point, hadn’t everyone fantasized about disappearing and starting over somewhere new? Just wiping the slate clean? The ultimate do-over?
Mary
couldn’t speak for everyone.
But she knew she’d considered it.
Thirty-Seven
Mary drove back to her place and was at her door when she heard him.
“Hey, hold up!”
She turned and saw the new good-looking neighbor trot down the hall toward her. What was his name again, she thought? Chris. Chris McAllister.
“Sorry,” he said when he finally reached her. “But I wanted to ask you a question.” He hesitated. “Actually, I’d like to get your opinion.”
“Yes, I think global warming is actually happening. Soon we’ll be underwater. Might be an improvement for L.A.”
He laughed, displaying that easy confidence she had noticed and liked, before.
“You know, I happen to agree, but I actually wanted your opinion on something else?”
“Hey, you want ‘em, opinions I got.”
“It’s actually my apartment. I can’t decide where to hang two paintings. I needed a different perspective.”
“Ah, so when you bring your lady friends here they’ll feel at home? Sort of some inside information?”
“Exactly. I want you to spy on your gender for me. Come back and tell me everything.”
Mary chuckled and then her mind flashed back to the shooting at the gallery where the mermaid/dolphin had been destroyed.
“You know,” she said. “Art and I don’t have a great history together.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“All right, I’ll tell my manservant Jacques to keep the lobster warm.”
He laughed, and for a brief moment Mary realized it was a laugh she could get used to.
Chris McAllister opened the door and Mary followed him in, checking out his ass as she went. Nice. It was firm and taut. She wanted to bounce a quarter off the damn thing, or maybe something else. Something more personal.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said.
Mary looked around. Mess? Her place hadn’t been this neat and clean since she’d moved in.
“Yeah, what a dump,” she said. “Sheesh. If you think this is bad, come over and make a mess of my place. It’ll be a huge improvement.”
It was a nice place. He’d bought completely contemporary furnishings. Sleek tables. Fifties style lamps. But not over the top. Not self-conscious. She had to admit, it was just good taste. Hip good taste.
“Before I present the dilemma,” he said. “Can I offer the judge a beverage? Wine? Martini? Beer?”
“Do you have any grain alcohol?” she said. “200 proof?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just polished that off last night.”
“In that case, I’m good for now.” Her head still ached from the Jack Daniels. She was looking forward to going to bed.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “As you can see, my overall style is eclectic, but I’ve got two pieces of art here.”
He led her to the living room where two large canvases sat. One was definitely in the impressionistic camp. Heavy brushstrokes.
The other was like a Giclee print. It was an electric guitar.
“Hmm,” Mary said.
“What?”
“Well, I like both,” she said.
“Oh come on,” Chris answered. “My impression of you was that you don’t pull any punches. What do I look like? A pansy? I can handle the truth.” He raised his eyebrows and did a reasonably good impression of Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. “You need me on that wall…”
“Does anyone actually use the word pansy anymore?” Mary said.
“Only pansies.”
They both laughed.
“Okay, I’ll be honest,” Mary said. “Which is something I haven’t been in a long time. In fact, the last time I was honest I actually strained an abdominal muscle.”
“Okay.”
“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”
She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.
“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”
“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What did you figure me for?”
“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”
“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”
“Wow, what a coincidence. I love to have other people cook for me.”
Chris checked his watch. “Speaking of food, I was just going to whip up some pasta. Wanna stay?”
He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Mary checked out his ass again.
“I suppose I could cancel my dinner with the Governor.”
Thirty-Eight
Mary woke up in her own apartment. But only because she had insisted that she do so. The night had been wonderful. Good food. Great conversation and so much more.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the stack of files in front of her. But her mind went back to Chris McAllister. Mary had never slept with anyone that soon – it was only the second time she’d talked with him. A part of her felt guilty and ashamed. A part of her told her she was middle-aged and that those kind of rules no longer applied.
She felt a small shudder when she considered that she could end up like those three nymphomaniacs who had supplied Uncle Brent with his Viagra.
Mary shelved her thoughts of carnal pleasures and called Braggs. She got his voicemail.
“Braggs, it’s Mary Cooper,” she said. “Change your message, you sound like one of those god-awful announcers for the tractor pull.” She growled her voice. “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Get ready for the Monster Truck Rally-”
“Whitney Braggs here,” he said, cutting her off.
“Put down the Brylcreem and meet me at Alice’s. You can finish your French pedicure later.”
“It seems you think I’m a bit of a dandy.”
“Perish the thought, Princess. Just meet me there in ten minutes.”
“Affirmative.”
“Shut up, Braggs.”
Silence.
“Tell your old cronies to dust off the mothballs and meet us there, too.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “The ‘old gang’ as it were. I’ll get them there as absolutely soon as possible.”
“And tell them if they have any old pictures, mementos, letters, to bring them, too. Ixnay on anything pornographic.”
“They’re not those kind of men, Mary.”
“I was talking about you.”
Thirty-Nine
They filed in like a parade of Hollywood glamour gone bad. Faces too tan. Or too pale. Bodies too thin. Or too flabby. Teeth too white. Or too yellow. If there were teeth at all.
Braggs introduced each new arrival to Mary, and gave her a brief rundown of their background. Mary recognized most of them from Margaret Stewart’s files. She noted each one as they were introduced, adding their faces to her mental Rolodex.
Jason Prescott. Really tall. 6’6” easy. Former stand-up comic turned MC of old folks comedy shows.
Mark Reihm. Average looking except for the severe acne scarring on his face. A gray buzz cut heightened the disastrous effect.
Franklin Goslyn. A little bowling ball of a man.
Todd Castro. A white-haired, dark-skinned guy light on personality, heavy on horrible cologne. Most likely purchased at Marshalls, TJMaxx, or Ross Superstores.
Eventually, the names, faces and handshakes, and hugs bordering on ass grabs were over and Mary got down to business.
“All right,” she said to the assembled group. “We’ve got work to do, fellas. You guys can jerk each other off later.”
The group slowly quieted down.
“Save it for your Inflate-A-Mate.” Mary said.
More laughter followed Mary’s comment.
“Now that's what I call ‘junk in the trunk’!” one of the old men said.
“Baby got back, front, top, and bottom!” another guy said.
“That’s some quality material guys,” Mary said. “I can’t believe no one else noticed your talents.”
Braggs, sitting in the front, turned back and gave the stinkeye to the rabble rousers. They quieted down and Mary used the opportunity to lay out the files of the five people she had failed to identify.
“Look, she’s spreading herself out,” a voice said.
“Right on the table?”
“Giddyup!” Someone added the sound of horse hooves. Clip clop, clip clop.
Mary picked up the first file, ignoring the barely concealed laughter.
“Martin Gulinski,” she said, and held up the first file.
“Farty Marty!”
“He’s been dead for ten years, and while he was alive, he smelled like he’d died ten years ago!”
Mary took out a pen and sighed.
“As much as I enjoy the colorful commentary,” she said. “Let’s try to stick to dead or alive, current whereabouts, next of kin.”
“He changed his name,” this from a guy sitting in the middle of the group. He sort of looked like Mickey Rooney. “Gulinski was too ethnic. He thought he wasn’t getting work because of it. So he changed it to Gulls and then got cancer and died. Should’ve stuck with Gulinski.”
“He had children,” another man added. “I think in Portland. He could never figure out why they were black kids. Looked just like the UPS man.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “The kids. Boys or girls?”
“Two boys, I think.”
Mary wrote down “Gulinski,” and “Portland.” She’d look the sons up and call them, try to confirm that their father was indeed dead. She’d leave the flatulence part out.
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 9
